


He Never Knew

by lucathia



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Gen, What-If, word count: 10000+
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucathia/pseuds/lucathia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his memories during Nationals, Ryoma never gained it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What was Tennis?

**Author's Note:**

> An AU take on canon events. Contains spoilers for the end of the manga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written for the extra theme #1 the rush of a thousand heartbreak from lovefujitez's theme set for 31days_exchange on livejournal.

"Um, Ryoma-kun!"

He stopped. That was his name. Or so he had been told. Was she someone he had known too? Someone close enough to call him by his given name...

"Um, I heard that you lost your memory...I, I was taught how to play tennis by Ryoma-kun... and I started loving tennis a lot..."

He turned around. She had her hands clasped in front of her, her head lowered. He was going to disappoint her too, just like how he had disappointed all of those kind players who had gone out of their way to help him. They had been so fired up, so eager and optimistic, never doubting that he would remember the sport they loved, the sport that he was supposed to love, the sport that connected them all. They had tried to reenact matches they said he had played with them, their eyes full of hope, challenging him to rise up to their expectations, to remember what they had shared.

But the racket had felt foreign in his hands.

And their shots had been frightening, impossible to touch.

He had not met their expectations.

Instead, he had watched as the hope in their eyes dimmed, their shots turning sluggish until they stopped altogether.

Because it was apparent he wasn't going to remember in time, if ever. Whoever they were expecting, he was clearly not that person.

"I'm sorry," he said. He didn't know who he was apologizing to. Himself? The girl in front of him? All those players who had tried so hard to help him remember? There were too many. He was confused. He didn't know them. He didn't even know himself. He certainly didn't know tennis. As they had come at him one after another, all because of tennis, he had wondered. Why were they forcing him to remember by slamming balls at him? Weren't there other, safer methods?

Was tennis that important?

Had tennis meant that much to him?

The tall, spiky-haired boy who had wanted him to call him "Momo-sempai" had fallen to his knees when tennis didn't resonate for him no matter what they had tried.

Seeing their efforts made him want to find out. What was it about tennis...

His apology hung in the air. The girl stared at him. She was biting her lips. She shuffled her feet and clenched her hands tight. "No... don't apologize, Ryoma-kun. It's not your fault. You... don't usually apologize."

"Sorry..." he said before he could stop himself from apologizing for his apology.

The girl flinched. He wanted to apologize again, but he could see the discomfort his apology had caused her. He closed his mouth. Instead of apologizing, he looked towards the stadium that he had been pulled away from.

"Are you...playing, Ryoma-kun?" the girl asked timidly.

He looked back at her. His gaze alone told her his answer.

* * *

When he entered the much-too-quiet stadium, he told everyone he still didn't remember a thing. Everyone, even those at the other team's bench, had their attention on him, hanging on to his every word.

"You are Seigaku's pillar of support," the tall, thin boy with glasses said even after those words. "We're depending on you."

Depending on him? When he didn't even have a clue what was going on?

"But Tezuka," started the boy next to him. He was the one with strange hair, whose face looked frozen with worry. "We shouldn't force Echizen on the courts when he doesn't even remember anything! That's-"

Ridiculous. Absurd. The same as losing.

"We're not giving up," the first boy said, his voice still level but holding an undertone of fierceness. "He would not give up either, not when we've come this far."

The tall boy stopped and gestured towards the court where one lone player stood, jacket hugging his shoulders. "Echizen would never leave a challenge unanswered."

But he was only Echizen Ryoma in name. He was not that confident player they had known. He was not that person who rarely apologized, who was cheeky and disrespectful and could get away with it all, from what everyone had told him about who he had been. He didn't know how to be that person. He didn't know if he wanted to be that person either.

He gripped his racket and took in his teammates' expectant gazes.

Still, he would try. Because he was curious.

Even when he knew he would be letting them down.

* * *

On the courts, the captain of the other team shook his head, his amused smile dropping from his face. The arms of his jacket fluttered in the wind behind him, like the mantle of a lord.

"What do you think you can accomplish in that state, boy?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft despite his hardened gaze.

He didn't know. He suddenly had the urge to hug his racket close to him, but that would only made him look vulnerable.

"Give up now, before you regret it."

He gripped his racket tight and took a deep breath. Although his golden eyes were not piercing or cocky but rather troubled and hesitant, he had already made up his mind.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not giving up."

* * *

They began. He ran after the balls. His knees scraped across the ground. He was already panting and gasping for breath. He hadn't been able to return a single shot. Struggling, he pushed himself off the ground.

What was this?

He looked up at his towering opponent who stood against the sun before him.

This was... tennis?

This was nothing like the matches his supposed rivals had tried to play with him. Their shots had been challenging, prodding at him to remember, tickling his memories, pulling forth feelings of fragmented joy, small bursts of contentment that had hinted at a time when tennis had been thrilling and fun. He had wanted to remember even when their shots screamed past his ear because they had offered him a connection.

But this, this was frightening.

This was impossible.

He couldn't answer him. His opponent wasn't trying to reach out to him. His opponent was trying to _crush_ him completely without a hint of mercy.

He cringed when he missed yet another shot.

And then darkness took over his world.

"Ryoma-kun!"

"Echizen!"

"Ochibi!"

They yelled for him to stop. He wanted to stop. He couldn't even see anything. Was he blind? What was going on?

"Now will you give up?"

That deceptively soft voice wanted him to give up too.

"What is tennis?" he asked through labored breaths..

That deceptively soft voice answered.

"My life."

He swung at the ball wildly. He thought he heard the ball bounce near him.

He missed.

He missed again.

And then silence took over his world.

He strained his ears, but even that deceptively soft voice could no longer be heard.

His life?

What was tennis?

He could still feel the racket in his grip, but it was useless. He could not play.

He dropped the racket and felt it clatter against his feet without a sound.

Tennis was not fun.

* * *

And so, Seigaku lost.


	2. A Life Without Tennis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written for the theme # 31: See the place you live through fresh eyes from lovefujitez's theme set for 31days_exchange on livejournal.

Losing the championship when they had been so close should have meant more to him, but it didn't. All he knew was that these people - his teammates - were now looking at him with enough pity to suffocate him. They were uncomfortable in his presence, always shifting their eyes away and fidgeting, as if they didn't know how to treat him.

He didn't know how he was supposed to act either. When he'd given up and lost, his teammates had rushed over to him. Deprived of his sight, his hearing, and his memories, he'd fallen into despair only to be pulled back by a strong pair of hands and cool, wet tears. When his hearing had slowly come back to him, he'd heard sniffling and bawling, what he took to be heartbroken wails for an escaped dream that had nearly been in their grasp. When his sight had finally come back to him, he'd seen the tear-streaks and the red-eyes even on those who had been silent, those who had tried so hard to be strong, like the one who had told him he was Seigaku's pillar of support. But try as he might, his memories had not come back, and he could not understand the depths of their regret.

Losing hadn't felt real to him, but having his world plunged into darkness and silence had felt more real than anything.

He didn't ever want to pick up another racket.

* * *

They tried to tell him the tennis match he had played with the owner of that deceptively soft voice was not the norm. That it was Yukimura Seiichi's tennis that was frightening and not tennis itself. They should not have made him play despite hoping for a miracle, for his memories to come back in the middle of the match, for his body to remember what it felt like to play. Perhaps then he would not have become scared of tennis.

They had tried to honor what they thought he would have wanted if he had not lost his memories. He would never back down from a challenge, they had said. In fact, he would have hated doing so. But for someone with amnesia who was unsure of what tennis meant to him, who had been searching for an answer, for a connection, Yukimura had been perhaps the worst opponent possible.

He tried to listen to what they were saying.

He knew they weren't lying to him.

But he, he couldn't. He just couldn't do it.

Tennis was... frightening.

* * *

At school, he answered questions and helped the teachers only to have them freak out. They asked him why he wasn't sleeping in their class, why he wasn't ignoring them and doing his own thing. They made him wonder what kind of student he had been for them to react in such a way, for surely an amnesic student would have to pay extra attention to stay on top of things.

Once, during lunch, he laughed at his loud friend's joke about having two years of English experience only for his three friends to ask him if he were in his right mind, because Ryoma would never have laughed at such a lame joke. Right after, his friend with the bowl cut apologized for all three of them for asking such an insensitive question.

He merely fell silent, and wondered.

* * *

When he refused to go to tennis practice and "Momo-sempai" yelled at him, no one apologized.

* * *

At home, nothing was familiar either. He was like a stranger borrowing someone else's body, fumbling as he tried to imitate who he was supposed to be, claiming he was "Echizen Ryoma" when there was nothing that made him "Echizen Ryoma". His behavior, his questions, his fear of tennis - every action, every little thing that defined who he was in the present made them stare and wonder where Echizen Ryoma had gone.

He was everything that Echizen Ryoma was not.

Who was Echizen Ryoma, really?

At the breakfast table, the woman who was his mother always cooked what was supposed to be his "favorite" foods. He hated American breakfasts, they told him. Japanese was his favorite. It was unsettling to be told what he hated and what he liked by others when he himself didn't even know, but when he took a bite out of his white rice and his tamagoyaki, he found himself taking a second bite, and then another, and then he even emptied out his bowl of miso soup while still chewing on his rice.

He smiled and placed his chopsticks down neatly.

"That was delicious. Thanks for the meal."

Sitting across from him, his mother smiled and wordlessly started cleaning up the table. It was the person next to him - his cousin - who reacted more emotionally. Suddenly, he found his face rubbing against the scratchy yarn of her sweater. She'd planted his face in her shoulder and was now patting him on the back.

It was kind of comforting if not for the scratchy yarn.

"Oh Ryoma," she said. "Since when have you ever been so polite?"

Apparently, he never thanked people just like how he rarely apologized, but at least his taste buds hadn't changed. He didn't know what he liked and wasn't sure if he liked being told what he liked, but at least he was sure he would slowly find out more about himself. He didn't feel like Echizen Ryoma and they were telling him at every turn that this wasn't something that Echizen Ryoma would have done, but surely, surely he was fine this way too?

Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around his cousin, returning the sudden embrace.

"Oh," she gasped.

Apparently, he wasn't very affectionate either.

* * *

Deep inside of him, he knew how important tennis had been to him, how important tennis still was for his father, the man who had been the first sight he'd seen when he'd woken up without his memories by the waterfall on some absurd tennis training trip they'd gone on together. How could he not know when they had a tennis court right outside their house in their yard?

Yet the very sight of the tennis court made him shudder every time he had to pass by it.

"Going to school?" his father asked from the porch. Beside him lay a wooden racket on top of several magazines. Here was yet another person who no longer knew how to act around "Echizen Ryoma" now that he no longer played tennis.

He nodded. Before his father could ask him for a match in the evening, he walked away with hurried steps. He could picture his father looking at the empty tennis court because ever since he'd lost his memory, that was all his father ever did.

He knew his father was waiting.

Waiting for him.

But even though he didn't know much about what he liked anymore, there was one thing he was very sure about.

He didn't like tennis.

* * *

He didn't know if a life without tennis was strange because he had no idea what a life with tennis was like. But everyone he ran into asked if he was okay, not because he didn't have his memory, but rather because he was not playing tennis.

Echizen Ryoma without tennis was unheard of.

He found himself with tons of free time. He wondered what his hobbies were, other than tennis. He soon discovered his love for bubble baths when he compulsively dumped a bag of bath salts into the tub after wondering what it was for.

The bubbles.

The scent.

It was familiar.

After filling his tub with water, he let himself in, savoring the feel of hot, scathing water, breathing in the scent of sweet lavender. Outside his tub, his cat - Karupin, they had told him - purred and swished his tail, relishing in the warmth of the room. This was a hobby he could get used to. It was relaxing and soothing.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

Breakfast.

School.

Ryoma, let's play.

No, I don't want to.

What? Echizen would never...

A life without tennis.

Rinse and repeat.

* * *

He drained the water from his tub, watching as the water swirled down and away. As he watched, mesmerized, Karupin brushed against his legs. Absentmindedly, he scratched his cat behind his ears.

* * *

His life without tennis continued peacefully.

Until Yukimura Seiichi came to his door.


	3. This was Tennis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written for the theme # 30: Position of mysterious authority and of feared nebulosity from lovefujitez's theme set for 31days_exchange on livejournal.

When he opened his door and came face-to-face with Rikkai's captain, the owner of that deceptively soft voice that taunted him during his darkest moments, the person who had completely destroyed any chance of him coming to love tennis in his current state, he froze.

And stared.

The pleasant greeting he had prepared for whoever his visitor might be died at his lips.

He would have been prepared for anyone but the owner of _that_ voice. His former teammates. His friends. His teachers. Or even other random people he had known. Was supposed to know. He'd gotten used to strangers who were not strangers coming up to him, acting appalled over his refusal to play tennis as if they knew better. _Amnesia?_ they would exclaim, only for their surprise to turn into outright disbelief when they discovered he no longer played tennis. He'd learned how to deal with those kinds of reactions, how to turn away his teammates' invitations, how not to be affected when people cared more about him not playing tennis than him losing his memories...

Anyone. He'd have been prepared for anyone but him.

He couldn't think.

He tried to force his jaw to move, to say something, anything so that he could stop staring like a deer caught in the headlights, soon to be run over, completely at the mercy of the oncoming traffic, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. He could only stare at the looming figure before him, memories trickling in of his world becoming submerged in darkness, engulfed by silence with only that deceptively soft voice lingering within his barren mind, mocking him, berating him, telling him that _tennis was life_.

Tennis was life, so how dare he turn his back on tennis?

He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. He could only drown in the hopelessness that had seeped into his bones at the time, that he so clearly remembered with every fiber in his body, that he thought he would be able to put away, but no, that was a false assumption, misplaced confidence where there was none to be had. He wanted to forget, but his body wouldn't let him. The trickle of memories of that impossible match, the feeling of utter despair that he had felt, slammed at his walls, breaking down his laughable dam. This was no trickle.

It was a deafening roar.

Where...was he?

He gripped the frame of his door, hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, for the wood to dig into his skin. Even then, he could not stop himself from shaking. Shivering. And staring.

It was cold.

For a moment, he had no longer known where he was.

The flowers didn't make sense.

The roaring wouldn't stop.

He slammed the door shut.

 _Thump._

 _Thump thump._

His heart beat crazily against his rib cage. He slid down against the door, burying his face in his arms, that one motion of closing the door sapping all of his energy.

He didn't want to remember that match. He should be searching for his memories or trying to make new ones, but that match, that match didn't help. He didn't want to...he didn't want to...

"Won't you let me in?" that soft but never gentle voice called out from beyond the door, loud in his ears despite the door between them. Or was that his imagination playing tricks on him once again?

Now will you give up?

He covered his ears.

Stop.

He wanted the load roaring to stop plaguing him.

"No...yes…" he whispered before he even realized he had spoken, the words like a betrayal coming from himself.

What was he answering? Who was he answering?

"Ryoma, who's at the door?"

No one. No one was at the door.

If he thought that hard enough, repeating it over and over again, maybe it would come true. He needed it to come true.

Go away.

Stop bothering me.

Leave me be.

* * *

There were flowers on the kitchen table. Supported by a slim and dainty vase. Daisies. They were daisies. He would have completely overlooked the white daisies if he hadn't seen them in the hands of the owner of _that_ voice only a few hours ago.

So that part hadn't been his imagination.

Numbly, he fingered one velvety petal, the scent almost reminding him of one particular bag of his bath salts, but that was misleading. A false sense of peacefulness. There was nothing soothing about these flowers, nothing gentle, nothing merciful, just like the one who had brought them. He appeared soft and effeminate, but he was nothing like how he appeared.

"Oh that?" his mother asked from behind. "This boy handed them to me when I came home. He looked like he was deep in thought. He almost didn't notice my approach. Nanako helped find a vase."

When she came home?

It was dark outside now.

It had been hours.

Was he still waiting outside?

Don't...don't look...

But he couldn't help himself.

* * *

He didn't know what he had been expecting - a forlorn figure huddling in the dark, or a tall and straight back despite the cold, jacket fluttering in the chilly night air - but it was not this.

"Leave Ryoma alone. You've done enough."

 _Wham._

He won't even play with me anymore.

"What happened in Karuizawa?"

 _Slam._

I know, but I'm not the only one to blame. His memories were gone even before we crossed paths.

"Don't take that kind of tone with me, kid."

 _Thwack._

You think I don't know?

"Was it worth it?"

Was it worth it?

"I would do it all over again."

Were they fighting? No, no they weren't, not in that sense.

Tennis.

They were speaking through tennis, through the only thing they knew and shared. Fast. Furious. It took his breath away, leaving him shaking, wondering if this was fear or something else. He was so enthralled that he could no longer tell who was hitting what, nor could he figure out who had spoken in the end. Perhaps it was his father. Perhaps it was that one person he hadn't been prepared to confront. Perhaps it was no one. Perhaps it was both. He couldn't tell, not even with his father's gruff voice, not even with that deceptively soft voice colored by velvety tones like the petals of the daisies between his fingers.

 _Watch_ , the ball seemed to say to him.

Watch.

This was tennis.

This was what would have happened if you had been able to answer his shots.

He covered his eyes but could not stop himself from seeing through the cracks of his fingers.

It was a beautiful and deadly dance, one that was luring him in from turbulent waters, beckoning him, tricking him. This was no safe harbor. This was not his destination. This was not what he wanted. This was what had left him cowering, useless, and unwelcome.

He watched.

And wondered.

Why wasn't he on the courts?


	4. Without Tennis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written for the theme # 14. Good fast fiction fresh off the calendar from lovefujitez's theme set for 31days_exchange on livejournal.

Echizen Ryoma without his memories was a curious thing. He had been popular enough as the first year rookie of the tennis team and always had tales of his impressive skill and his cheekiness trailing after him. He even had his own fan club, one that was of a respectable size, small in comparison with some of the other tennis players in the middle school circuit, but respectable nonetheless. However, when Echizen Ryoma lost his memories and came to school with large, questioning eyes, his fan club swooned.

And began growing in size. Exponentially.

There was something about the way Echizen Ryoma carried himself that made all the females want to give him a much needed hug and to shower him with love. He no longer walked with his hands in his pockets, racket bag slung over his shoulders. Gone was his self-assuredness. Gone was his absolute focus on tennis, the one path he had been following. Without his memories, _without tennis_ , Echizen Ryoma was an entirely different being.

His golden eyes that had always lazily glanced at them (or outright ignored them all together) from beneath his dark bangs now actually focused on them whenever they spoke with him. Those eyes would widen, or they would narrow, his every expression etched clearly on his face, open and vulnerable like never before, unable to be hidden away beneath his tennis cap. Instead of brushing them off with small, conversational noises (like a careless "heh" or a removed "hn" here and there), he responded with interest and politely asked questions when there was something he didn't know.

Echizen Ryoma, asking questions?

Echizen Ryoma, paying attention?

The teachers loved him for it. They could almost cry (after their initial shock). His classmates gossiped about it, fascinated, because how could someone lose their memories just like that?

Rumors spread like wildfire, some true, some false, most merely exaggerated. They said he had been kidnapped on a helicopter and thrown into a den of lions (there _had_ been a helicopter and there _had_ been a fierce team of ruthless rival tennis players but no real lions, and Atobe Keigo would protest to kidnapping Seigaku's rookie when he had so gracefully lent a helping hand). They said he had drowned under a waterfall and had almost been ravished by a savage (while he _had_ been half naked, that "savage" was Echizen's father, for goodness' sake, and he had been trying to dry off his clothes, crazy teenagers and their wild imagination). Everyone wondered, but no one actually sought the truth, for rumors were much better entertainment, and the tennis club was too frightening to approach with its multiple lines of defense, the first being toxic health drinks that made it so that no one even figured out what the second line of defense was (some said it was laps).

The rumors made it so that his fanclub cooed and went "awww" over him even more, not that Echizen Ryoma understood what was going on. He'd been dense and clueless about anything that wasn't related to tennis. Now he was still dense and clueless but in a different way, and he could no longer claim to be an expert in tennis either. It made them wonder how he was faring without the one thing that had driven him because no one knew Echizen Ryoma without tennis.

Their current understanding, however, was that it made him much more approachable as long as you learned to stop mentioning tennis in his presence.

"Echizen-kun, you have library duty in a few minutes. Would you like me to accompany you there?" asked a female student who had always been in Echizen Ryoma's class but had never spoken with him before now. Although they were the same age, even she wanted to mother him when he turned and blinked his confused eyes at her, head tilted to the side.

"Really? Thanks for the reminder...do you know what I'm supposed to do there?" His voice held none of his usual disinterest and rudeness, a stark difference that never ceased to send the females into twitters.

After she explained and they started off together, the students behind them once again started gossiping.

 _Did you see that?_

 _He was so cute! I should have offered!_

And that was how his fanclub kept growing.

* * *

Echizen Ryoma without his memories was a curious thing, but only for those who didn't know him very well before he lost his memories. For his teammates, Echizen Ryoma without his memories could only be regarded as a strange being.

"I heard Ochibi has gym class today! I hope they're playing tennis!" exclaimed Kikumaru Eiji, one of the most openly distressed over his kouhai's predicament.

"I don't think he's ready for that yet...besides, I'm sure they're going to have class indoors," replied Oishi Shuuichirou calmly, though secretly, he too hoped their youngest teammate would have the chance to step on the courts once more and hopefully rediscover his passion for the sport. It saddened and frightened them all to think that perhaps Echizen Ryoma had been scared off for good (Echizen Ryoma, scared? Of tennis? The mere thought should have been blasphemous, but no, it was the truth, one that should have never come to be).

"I believe they are playing volleyball today," commented Inui Sadaharu while fixing his glasses. His data told him that there was an 80% chance that the teacher would decide on volleyball, for she always had a pattern in the sports she chose, with volleyball coming after basketball.

"Well, that sucks," said Kikumaru Eiji with a frown. "Besides, Ochibi sucks at volleyball, right? He's not going to have any fun with that."

Oh how wrong he was.

When they passed by a gaggle of first years sweaty from gym class, they overheard tales of Echizen Ryoma's surprising skill in volleyball. He had singlehandedly helped his team win and had left their opponents with dropped jaws at his impressive skill. He had done it with a wide and carefree smile, rumors said, as if he were soaring in the air (and he had been, if only for a few seconds when he'd been spiking the ball down).

"That can't be true!" protested Kikumaru to Fuji Shuusuke in between class. "Remember that time at the beach? He fell flat on his face! And, and...how could he enjoy volleyball so much when he won't even touch his racket?"

If people could be envious of a sport, Kikumaru was feeling that right now. Who cared about volleyball? It wasn't tennis! That wasn't what Ochibi should be playing!

Fuji mused. "Did Inui say anything about the matter?"

With a face, Kikumaru nodded. "He said that maybe it's because Ochibi doesn't remember tennis. Since he kept trying to apply tennis moves while we were playing beach volleyball..."

That was what scared him the most, the fact that Ochibi had so completely forgotten tennis that it no longer colored his actions.

Fuji patted his friend on the shoulder. He knew the feeling too well. Echizen Ryoma and tennis had always gone hand-in-hand, and that was what had brought him to them. Without tennis, the one thing that ran through their shared memories, there was nothing binding Echizen Ryoma to them or even to the Echizen Ryoma of the past. It disheartened him to think that perhaps he would never see to the end of that fateful match cut short by the rain, the match that had filled him with adrenaline and intoxicated him with a thrill so great that it was almost uncontainable. How could Echizen Ryoma forget the thrill that he had taught others? How could he not feel that missing part of himself?

For his teammates, Echizen Ryoma without his memories, without his memories of _tennis_ , was a complete stranger.

Through and through.


	5. That is Not Echizen Ryoma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written for the theme # 8. Discombobulated people en masse from lovefujitez's theme set for 31days_exchange on livejournal.

There wasn't a single middle school tennis player who hadn't heard that Echizen Ryoma had lost his memories and along with that, his ability to play tennis. Many of them had even been present during that crippling match that had sent the used-to-be tennis wonder to his knees in front of the overwhelming presence that was Yukimura Seiichi. If they hadn't been present, they easily heard about it from others because this was Echizen Ryoma they were talking about, Seigaku's bratty first year that created waves no matter where he went.

If you listened carefully to Ibu Shinji, the first player Echizen Ryoma had ever played singles against in the official matches, you would find phrases like i _mpertinent rookie, I bet this grip tape would spark his memory, ah but he's not impertinent anymore...that's an improvement, but no tennis...how boring_ sneaking into his mumblings to himself. Ibu would see things and remember the wide-eyed boy from Nationals that he had rallied against to help jog the boy's memory, but that boy was not Echizen Ryoma. Ibu had always complained about Echizen's rudeness to players older than him and had always been annoyed by Echizen's taunting play-style that was so like his infuriating personality, but that irritating Echizen Ryoma was the one Ibu wanted to play against once more, not the trembling boy whose racket had looked too big for his hands. _He is still impertinent after all, going off and losing his memories of tennis like that..._ was Ibu's conclusion and the next topic for his mumblings.

The rest of Ibu's teammates at Fudoumine had also seen what Echizen Ryoma's amnesia had done to him. _What a pity_ , Tachibana Kippei had said in response. _But perhaps this will be the trigger for his rebirth._ He spoke from experience, from the time when tennis had become too overwhelming for him and had forced him to change. Change he did, but ultimately, he did not run away - he could even say he was a better person for it, and for that he had his younger self to thank.

If you directed your attention to St. Rudolph and followed Fuji Yuuta, the first left-handed player (like himself) that Echizen Ryoma had gone up against in the matches, you would find him frowning and poking at his food, even at his favorite cakes and pies that he usually always devoured on the spot. That would be how Fuji Yuuta showed his confusion over Echizen's loss of memories and his ability to play tennis. Echizen Ryoma had helped Yuuta escape his urging need to defeat his brother once-and-for all so that he could emerge from his shadows. While Yuuta's complex about being compared with his brother still existed, it was Echizen Ryoma who had opened Yuuta's eyes to the world beyond his brother, and made it so that Yuuta no longer exploded in his brother's presence (in fact, he thought his brother was the best, but he'd rather die than tell his brother that). In the evenings, Yuuta would phone his brother and ask, hopeful for a breakthrough, but his brother would answer, _No, he still refuses to come to tennis practice._ A pause. _He seems to be avoiding us._ Yuuta would fall silent because even though he missed that confident and cocky southpaw that had pulled him out of his funk, his sense of loss was nothing compared to his brother's and the rest of Seigaku's. He would hear it clearly in his brother's quiet tone over the phone.

 _He should have come to us,_ Mizuki Hajime sometimes said after Yuuta got off the phone. _We would not have let something like that happen to him_. Mizuki had always wanted a talent like Echizen Ryoma for St. Rudolph. It was his opinion that clearly, Seigaku hadn't looked after their star player carefully enough. If Mizuki had been in charge, he would not have let something so outrageous happen to a budding tennis player. (Other people would not agree).

If you spied on Akutsu, the terrifying third-year tennis monster that had served rocks at Echizen Ryoma's teammates at Seigaku, that everyone had thought would slaughter Echizen Ryoma during their match with his violent nature, you would find him pausing at the sound of tennis even though he had "quit". He would throw his cigarette on the ground and snub it out, growling in frustration at his inability to block tennis out of his mind when the one who had challenged him in the first place had forgotten it completely. Tennis was an even worse addiction than nicotine, yet the person who had gotten him so thoroughly addicted no longer existed. That small, withdrawn boy who had stood before him at Nationals, who had cowered at the shots Akutsu had slammed at him to get him to remember, was not Echizen Ryoma, the player that Akutsu had wanted Dan Taichi to look up to as a model. _There is no room for cowardice in your tennis_ , Akutsu would think. _Who do you think you're masquerading as?_

When Akutsu's teammates at Yamabuki began pleading for him to return and help with the club, Akutsu would actually show up from time-to-time as a demonstration that he wasn't running away, so Echizen Ryoma should not run away either. At the club, the topic of "Echizen Ryoma" sometimes came up, though they would quickly skirt around the name when Akutsu's shots became too furious for them to handle. On days when practice was slow, Dan Taichi, who aspired to one day become a tennis player like Echizen Ryoma (who despite being just as short as Dan, never once let that become a weakness), would wonder if it was okay for him to continue striving for "Echizen Ryoma" now that he was no longer the strong player Dan had known. Dan would breathe in deeply and throw himself back into practice. If that ideal no longer existed, then he would have to become the ideal himself and show Echizen Ryoma.

If you walked along the courts of Hyoutei and observed Hiyoshi Wakashi and Atobe Keigo's rally, a rally between a player who had experienced first-hand Echizen Ryoma's evolution into a player of his own rights, and a player who had battled with Echizen Ryoma until both of them had dropped in exhaustion after pushing their bodies to their limits, you would find them prodding and questioning each other through tennis, trying to put Echizen Ryoma behind them because that was Seigaku's problem, not theirs (but they would be unsuccessful). _Gekokujou_ , Hiyoshi Wakashi would think as he sliced at the ball. _Tennis is about overtaking those above you, players or not. This "amnesia". You better conquer this too._ He would pant and tremble from the exertion his captain forced him to make, but he would think again and again that Echizen Ryoma had once said he was still game for another one hundred matches. _You better not have been lying._ Hiyoshi would continue playing and improving and overtaking those above him. He expected no less from Echizen Ryoma, or else he would not be worth his attention.

After the match, Atobe Keigo would wipe his sweat and think to himself that he already has his own budding tennis player to look after. He certainly didn't have time to be concerned about Echizen Ryoma, but he was (wasn't everyone?), especially since he had been on the scene as part of the search team that had gone to pick up Echizen Ryoma. When his helicopter had landed and the greeting had not been _ehh, the Monkey King has personally come to pick me up? I'm flattered_ , he hadn't been worried (he had just felt a mild, nagging sensation), but now he was, because dammit, he had gone out of his way to pick up Echizen Ryoma, but who had he found instead? Someone who refused to play tennis, someone who would not be capable of returning hit after hit until Atobe could move no more. After practice, Oshitari Yuushi would fall into step with Atobe and wordlessly hand him a water bottle. He had been on that helicopter too.

If you made your way to Midoriyama to see Kiraku Yasuyuki, the second-year whose father used to be a tennis pro much like how Echizen Ryoma's father used to be a tennis pro, he would be shaking his head at his team and wondering if they had it in them to beat Seigaku next year, but would it even amount to anything if Echizen Ryoma were no longer on the team? Kiraku had been confident in his skills before Echizen Ryoma and he had thought himself good enough for his father to be proud of him, but Echizen Ryoma had come and shaken up his world. _I thought both of us were going to surpass our fathers_ , he would think to himself while he watched his team. _What happened to that? And what about "next time" that you promised?_

 _Take a rest,_ Kiraku's teammates would tell him. _Even if you push yourself past your limits, Echizen Ryoma won't know._ Kiraku knew this, he did, but he still pushed himself, and from time to time, he would ask his father if he had heard anything from Echizen Nanjirou, the person that Echizen Ryoma had tried so hard to beat but had thrown to the wayside now that he no longer had his memories.

If you swung around Higa and went out of your way to visit Tanishi Kei, the strongest-hitting player Echizen Ryoma had played against, the most difficult player possible for Echizen's physical stature, you would find him running on the beach along with his teammates, angry at Echizen's loss of memories. _You won last time_ , Tanishi would think to himself, _But I would have won if we played again. Why did you have to forget?_ He knew he was chubby. He knew he had room to improve. He was nimble on his feet despite his size. He was strong with his shots because of his weight. If he could turn his excess fat into muscle, he could be even quicker, even stronger, and then Echizen would have no chance against him. When Echizen Ryoma had first stood in front of him across the net, Tanishi had found him laughable. How would such a short and skinny player ever be able to withstand his powerful shots? He had thought he proved his point when his serve had slammed Echizen Ryoma into the wall, but the boy was resilient and resourceful and frustratingly sneaky. When Echizen Ryoma had stood in front of him a second time, this time without his memories, he was no longer that resilient player who had climbed back up after getting slammed into the wall. He had looked every bit the short and skinny player he appeared to be, yet _that_ was not Echizen Ryoma.

Higa's captain, one Kite Eishirou, would push up his glasses and shrug about Echizen. _It is a pity, true, but it benefits us greatly._ He would have liked to play against Echizen, to find out what other people saw in him, and while it was a pity that there might no longer be such a chance, he also couldn't deny that with Echizen Ryoma out of the picture, Higa would have a much better chance at the championship next year. _Whether or not he regains his memory_ , Kite would tell his team, _we practice_. (And then perhaps the team next year would be able to help him take revenge on Seigaku that had so utterly dominated them during Nationals. Revenge would be sweeter, of course, if Echizen Ryoma were there).

If you took a hike to Shitenhouji, you wouldn't even need to approach the tennis club before hearing loud clamoring from Tooyama Kintarou, the first year who had been scheduled to play against Echizen Ryoma but who hadn't been able to because their team match had ended before they could play. If Echizen were the super rookie of the Kantou region, then Kintarou was the super rookie of the Kansai region. They had been a pair of sorts, and Kintarou had wanted to find out what his counterpart was like, but now he was alone in his title of super rookie, and they would never have the chance to play. _Let go of me, Shiraishi!_ Kintarou would yell when his captain would forbade him to run all the way to Seigaku to find Echizen hours and hours away. _Koshimae can't have forgotten just like that!_ Kintarou was convinced that if only he could exchange one more shot with Echizen, then maybe he would remember and recall that one exciting rally they had exchanged - a mere one point, much too little to satisfy Kintarou especially now that he knew that might have been their last. But no matter how much Kintarou protested, Shiraishi would not let him go.

Shitenhouji gave their condolences to Seigaku. _If something like that ever happened to our own rookie, I'm not sure how we would deal._ They would look at Kintarou, who would be sulking from not being able to go to Tokyo, and think that they could not imagine Kintarou without tennis. They would never want Kintarou to stop playing. He had so much potential, so much room to grow.

Rokkaku was not unaffected by Echizen Ryoma's predicament, but none of them had personally played against Echizen Ryoma. They were good friends with Seigaku, however, and kept in touch to see how things were going. Saeki Kojirou would sometimes contact Fuji Shuusuke (he sure got called a lot), though they more often than not talked about other matters instead. It was simply easier for everyone involved.

If you stopped by Rikkaidai and Seigaku, you would find yourself surrounded by too many affected players to count. Out of all the schools and all the players, they had been affected the most, one team for being the ones who had a hand in Echizen Ryoma discarding his racket, the other for being the closest to Echizen Ryoma, almost like a family, though they were not guiltless either.

* * *

At Rikkaidai, Sanada stood in front of Yukimura and stared him down.


End file.
